A/N- This is pretty much just a shameless whumpy oneshot exploring the friendship between Hughes, Riza, and Mustang. It takes place during Ishval.

The men around the campfire were a noisy bunch, raising their voices to drive the dark away. This was Ishval, and no one knew what was lurking in the shadows.

Hughes didn't have any more idea than the rest of them, but he didn't want to find out. He just wanted to go home, back to Amestris and the beautiful girl who was - hopefully - waiting for him. He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out her picture, smiling as he looked at her smile. I hope to God I come home to you, Gracia. Then, a hand fell on his shoulder, and he looked up, folding the picture away.

"Looking at your girl again, Hughes?" Mustang said, grinning.

Hughes smiled at his friend and moved over so the other man could sit down. "I want to spend what could be my last night looking at something beautiful…so shove off, will you?"

Mustang laughed. "Don't be ridiculous. This won't be your last night, and you'll have plenty of time to moon over Gracia after the mission."

Hughes sighed. "The mission," he muttered.

"They say it will change the tide of the war," Mustang said, poking idly at the fire with a branch. "Maybe you'll see Gracia sooner than you think."

Hughes scoffed. "They say every mission will be the turning point. We're still here."

"But this one's different. It has to be," Mustang said, his eyes lighting up in desperate hope. "The Ishvalans are scattered. If we hit them hard now, surely they'll see reason."

Hughes rolled his eyes at his idealistic friend. "I can't imagine that a group of people who use sticks and stones against alchemy will see reason."

Mustang shrugged. "Well, my friend, we'll see who's right tomorrow. Don't stay up thinking about the lovely Gracia too late." He got up and left the ring of men, waving goodnight as he went. Hughes watched him go, hoping that his friend was right, and fearing very much that he wasn't. He looked up at the stars and said to himself - and whoever might be listening above him - the same words he'd said every night since arriving in Ishval.

"Please, one more day. Let me get through tomorrow. Just one more day." He didn't know if anyone was listening, but it didn't hurt to try. He rose from the rock he'd been sitting on and left the fireside. As he went, he looked back to the sky. The familiar constellations winked back at him. The same ones he'd grown up with, yet somehow strange.

I miss my stars, he thought, and made his way to his tent.

The battle started before any of them were ready. Hughes had been asleep in the tent he and Mustang shared, dreaming about Gracia, when all of a sudden the two men were woken by the sound of explosions in the nearby crumbling city.

"Roy? What's going on?" Hughes said frantically to Mustang, but Mustang had clearly also just woken and had no more idea what was happening than Hughes did. He was blinking slowly in the weak, early-morning sunlight, and his hair was still mussed from sleep.

"I'm...not sure…." Mustang said, trailing off as flashes of light shone through the wall of the tent. "Are we under attack?"

"Get up!" they heard Hawkeye yell from outside, banging lightly on the tent, as if she thought they might not already be awake. "The Ishvalans attacked our advance wave, get up. We're under attack."

Hughes felt adrenaline jolt through his body. He and Mustang shuffled around in the semi-darkness for a few moments, pulling on their uniforms and grabbing their weapons. Within two minutes of being woken, they were outside, and a minute after that, they were in the heat of the battle.

Confusion and bloodshed reigned inside the ruined city. There were Ishvalans and Amestrian soldiers everywhere, fighting so close together that it was a little hard to tell who was who. The Ishvalans would appear, strike a group of Amestrians, and disappear just as quickly as they'd come, leaving carnage in their wake. Guerilla tactics, nasty and savage, but effective. Hughes located as many of his men as he could and focused on keeping all of them alive. Every so often, Hughes would see a flash of light or feel the ground shift a little beneath him and know that another of the State Alchemists had joined the fight.

"Roy!" Hughes yelled, realizing suddenly that his friend wasn't beside him. The tide of the battle had swept them apart almost as soon as they'd set foot in the city. Hughes drew his gun and started to weave through the deadly streets, searching for any sign of Mustang.

Finally, Hughes saw a flash of red light in the distance, and immediately recognized it for what it was. Flame. Which meant that Mustang had joined the fight, and was on the offensive. There was no one else here who could do alchemy like his.

Hughes would know he was alive, at least, while he could still see the bright flashes of light. He kept one eye on the flames at the horizon and did what he could in his own corner of the city.

The day passed in a blur of running, falling, screaming, dying men. Hughes concentrated on directing his soldiers, but the Ishvalans proved to be unpleasantly tenacious…just as he'd expected. The battle dragged on long into the day, resulting in a ludicrously high death toll for both the Amestrians and the Ishvalans. In the very back of his mind, he was vaguely aware that he no longer saw the flicker of fire in the far corner of the war zone, but he was far too busy keeping his men alive to focus on anything else. Besides, the city was too large for him to keep track of all the opposing forces, especially with the Ishvalans' tendency to melt out of their buildings and alleys seemingly at will. He turned his attention back to his soldiers as the Ishvalans attacked again.

Finally, the Amestrians' far superior numbers proved too much for the scattered guerilla soldiers, and they withdrew, melting silently away into their ruined city. Hughes breathed a long sigh of relief, unable to believe that he was still alive. He looked up and saw Hawkeye making her way towards him.

"Hawkeye! You made it! I can't believe I - we - made it!" He paused. "Have you seen Roy?"

She shook her head, and the look on her face sent Hughes' heart into his stomach. "I lost track of the Major when the fighting started heating up. You haven't…?"

"I'm sure he's fine," Hughes said firmly, unwilling to entertain the possibility of anything else, not even for a moment. "It's a big city. He's probably at the other end in a ring of charred Ishvalans. Let's go find him."

Riza nodded, but her eyes sent a clear message: she didn't believe him. Hughes turned away, not wanting to think about it. He headed off purposefully to look for anyone who seemed to be in charge.

He found his object in the form of their superior officer. The tall man looked harried and worn, and Hughes knew that he was probably far too busy to worry about a missing soldier, but he had to ask.

"Sir!"

"Captain. Glad to see you made it through," he said, clearly exhausted.

"Thank you, sir. So am I. Speaking of…."

But he was already walking away. Hughes chased after him, Riza trailing him like a shadow.

"Sir! Have you seen or heard word of Major Roy Mustang? The Flame Alchemist?" Hughes sent a silent prayer to…whoever. He wasn't sure what he would do if Mustang was dead. He didn't think he would be able to handle it. Not after all they'd been through together.

"The Flame Alchemist?"

"Yes. I haven't seen him since the battle ended. Has he reported to you yet?"

The man's eyes darkened slightly. "I haven't seen him in...hours, probably. It seemed like his fire stopped appearing halfway through the battle."

Hughes felt his stomach turn to ice. He also had noticed the the lack of flames starting around hour three, but he had done his best to put it from his mind and hope that he had somehow misunderstood the situation. Maybe Mustang had been ordered somewhere else, maybe he had received a minor injury and been sent back to camp. But if no one had heard anything from him, then that couldn't be true. He had to still be somewhere in the war torn city.

"Hawkeye!" Hughes called, seeing his friend examining another body a little ways away. Hawkeye, over here!"

Riza walked over to him, and it wasn't until she had gotten a little closer that he realized how pale and drawn her face looked. He knew exactly how she felt. His heart was pounding so hard that it hurt.

"What are you doing?" he asked her.

Riza blinked at him slowly. "Looking for his body," she finally said, her voice dead.

Hughes didn't know how to respond to that. He wanted to comfort her, but he wasn't sure how. And anyway, he couldn't exactly offer reassurances that Mustang was, in fact, alive.

"I'll help you." He almost choked on the words. Riza nodded stiffly.

The two of them started to slowly make their way to the edge of the district where Mustang had last been seen. The street was littered with bodies, packed dense enough that the two soldiers had to watch their footing in order to avoid stepping on anyone. Occasionally, they would see a dark-haired soldier in a blue uniform, and Hughes' breathing would quicken and his heart would drop into his stomach. But every time he turned over the fallen soldier, it would be a different face looking back at him. None of them were Mustang.

They separated, Hughes walking one way and Riza heading the other. As Hughes approached each body, he prayed that he wouldn't turn it over to find his friend's dead eyes staring up at him. But…at least if they found him, they would know what had happened. Divided, Hughes continued searching for Mustang.

He would have missed Mustang completely if he hadn't almost tripped over him. He'd stumbled, then looked down to catch his balance. Amestrian uniform, dark hair, pale skin- Hughes' heart stopped.

"Hawkeye, I found him," he called, his voice cracking slightly. He hadn't really believed that Mustang could be dead until now. Mustang was curled on his side in the mouth of an alleyway, limbs bent beneath him. His features were obscured by a caul of blood that had oozed from a variety of long cuts on his face and neck, and he was lying in a pool of blood coming from…where?

Hughes dropped to his knees beside his friend, ignoring the mud and blood on the ground beneath him. He turned Mustang onto his back as Riza arrived beside him, tears streaming silently down her face.

Hughes drew a sharp breath, horrified by what Mustang must have endured before… before he…Hughes still didn't want to admit the reality of the situation. Mustang's uniform was shredded, his torso lacerated with shrapnel. There were still large shards of metal sticking out of his skin, blood welling gently up around their entry points. Hughes placed a hand on his friend's head as Riza knelt down beside him, still crying. He felt like doing the same.

"He's still warm," Hughes said miserably. "He must have been in so much pain…he disappeared around halfway through the battle. He must have been lying here, unable to get help…."

Riza brushed Mustang's hair back from his bloody face and frowned. "He's very warm…you don't think…?" She trailed off, and then slowly removed a mirror from her pocket and held it to Mustang's lips.

Hughes hardly dared to hope. Still, with baited breath, he lowered his ear to Mustang's chest. Thump…thump.

"I think he's alive," he said excitedly.

"He's breathing," Riza said at the same time.

Hughes glanced over at the mirror Riza was holding to Mustang's lips, and sure enough, his breath was faintly fogging the glassy surface. Hughes looked quickly up at Riza, and her eyes were so full of hope and fear that it was painful to behold. She didn't say anything to him, just kept looking between Hughes and the clouded mirror in her hands.

"We need to help him," Hughes said, as a sudden spike of adrenaline washed over him. "He could still die, we need to take care of him…."

Riza nodded, but she was clearly still lost in her own world, staring helplessly down at the body crumpled in front of her, absentmindedly brushing his bloody hair away from his face. To his horror, Hughes realized that her eyes were starting to look a little glassy, as if they were filling with tears.

"Hawkeye," Hughes said, as sharply as he dared given the circumstances. "Hawkeye, pull yourself together. We need to...we need to help him. We need to get him back to camp now, or he's still going to die."

As if she was awakening from a deep sleep, Hughes slowly saw Riza coming back to life. She blinked at him, and he saw her hands involuntarily stiffen against Mustang's still body.

"We need to put pressure on the wounds," she said. "Try to get him stable. Maybe pull out some of the bigger pieces of shrapnel, we won't be able to carry him back otherwise. If they fall out on the way they'll do even more damage than if they were left in…."

Still murmuring quietly to herself, Riza ripped off Mustang's military jacket in order to see the full extent of his wounds. Hughes sucked in a sharp breath when he saw how bad it was. Small shrapnel wounds and burn marks crisscrossed his bare chest. A few larger chunks of metal quivered where they had stuck into his skin. Blood welled around them, streaking down his chest, mixing with the dirt on the ground. It was too much blood. It had to be too much. His skin was very, very pale.

Hughes was struck by how young his friend looked when he was like this. They were all young, really, but normally he didn't spend much time thinking about it. They had been through a war, and they didn't feel young. But with Mustang like this, hovering somewhere between asleep and dead, Mustang didn't look like someone who could survive a war. He looked like a child. Hughes shook himself. If Mustang was going to live, he needed their help.

Beside him, Riza's hands fluttered uncertainly over a large shard of metal sticking out of Mustang's abdomen. She looked up at Hughes and cleared her throat.

"I need to remove this... Can you take that piece out?" She gestured to another splinter of shrapnel embedded in his shoulder. Hughes nodded uncertainly. He's already lost so much blood, surely he can't afford to lose any more? But he knew that Riza was right, and leaving the shrapnel in Mustang's body would prove a greater problem later. He gritted his teeth and wrapped his hand around the metal.

The shrapnel came out with a sickening squelch, leaving behind a gaping raw gash. As Hughes watched, blood welled up to fill the hole. Riza handed him a bundle of cloth and told him to put pressure on the wound. Blood oozed up between Hughes' fingers, and he sucked in a sharp breath. Once the bleeding had slowed a little, he bandaged the wound as best he could and saw Riza doing the same.

"We have to move him," Hughes muttered. He raised his voice to include Riza. "I'll take his shoulders…can you hold his ankles?"

She nodded, but she couldn't tear her eyes away from Mustang, lying spreadeagled in a pool of his own blood, a pool that was growing by the minute.

"We don't have time to get anyone," Hughes said, knowing that was the truth, but not liking it anymore than Riza. Mustang looked so fragile lying there…how could he survive the long journey back to the camp?

Still, they had to try. Hughes moved to Mustang's shoulders and took hold of them gingerly. As Riza grasped Mustang's ankles, they lifted, and Mustang's head fell forward, his chin resting against his chest. Hughes cringed at the unnatural looking angle. From where he was standing, it looked as though he were carrying his best friend's corpse back off the battlefield. With a pang of horror, he realized that if Mustang died on the way back to the camp, he would have no way of knowing.

"Hawkeye?" he asked, unable to keep a note of panic from his voice. "Is he breathing? Can you tell?"

"I think so," she said quietly. He breathed a sigh of relief, forcing himself not to worry her any more by asking her to watch for the rise and fall of Mustang's chest. He knew that she would be watching anyway.

"Hawkeye?" he asked quietly, unable to help himself. "Is he...is he going to die?"

As soon as Hughes said it, he wished that he hadn't. He saw Riza stiffen, and she drew in a sharp breath. Hughes had spent the whole time being the optimistic one, promising that they would find Mustang, that he would still be alive, looking at his friend's limp body and seeing life there still. But now, Hughes wasn't sure if he could be the optimistic one anymore. Not when Mustang was so still he might as well be dead, when his eyes were closed and the circles beneath them were bruises, when he was streaked with enough blood that Hughes swore it looked like he should be dead already.

"He won't die," Riza said, voice hard. "Not...not if we get him back to camp quickly enough."

Picking their way through the streets littered with bodies was not an easy task. Hughes was taller than Mustang, but not by much, and Riza was shorter than him. His body was just dead weight, dragging on Hughes' shoulders. Riza and Hughes tried to maneuver their way through the broken city as carefully as possible, not wanting to jostle Mustang too much. With every step, he seemed to be losing more blood.

At one point, Riza tripped over the fallen body of an Ishvalan rebel. She stumbled hard, barely managing to keep her balance, and ended up dropping one of Mustang's legs. Hughes felt himself tense, sure that they were causing his friend unbearable pain. But Mustang didn't even stir. His eyes remained closed, his breathing shallow. If Hughes didn't know better he never would have believed he was alive.

Riza took a deep, steadying breath and picked Mustang back up. Together, the two carried their injured friend through the city, being careful not to trip again and risk harming him further. By the time they finally made it back to their camp, sweat was dripping down Hughes' back and his heart was thudding in his chest. His arms ached from carrying Mustang for so long. But he knew he would have carried him across the entire country if he had needed to.

"What happened?" Hughes' superior officer said, running over to them. "Is that the Flame Alchemist? Is he alive?"

"Barely," Hughes said grimly. "We need to get him to the medical tent right away."

Without another word, the older man headed toward the infirmary at a run, waving for a doctor. Within a few minutes, there were white-coated men and women surrounding them and Mustang was being transferred onto a stretcher. They swept him away, toward the medical tent, Riza and Hughes following closely.

The doctors carried Mustang into the tent, but as Hughes stepped after them, another doctor gently placed a hand on his shoulder.

"You can't go in there," she said softly. "The Major needs emergency surgery. You have to stay out of their way. There's nothing you can do."

Furious, Hughes shrugged her off. "He's my best friend," he said angrily. "I need to be there."

He started forward again, but Riza's hand stopped him. He spun around, about to protest, but he stopped when he saw her face.

"We can't help him right now," Riza said dully. He knew she was right, and he knew that however useless he was feeling, she felt the same. He searched for the right thing to say to make them both feel better, but he couldn't find anything. At a loss, he put his hand on her shoulder and led her to a bench outside the tent. Unable to do anything else, they sat down and waited for news, good or bad.

After what seemed like an eternity, a doctor finally emerged from the tent, looking solemn and wiping his hands on his apron. As one, Hughes and Riza shot to their feet. They looked at him, desperate for news but afraid to say the words.

"Is he…?" Hughes finally said, but he was unable to finish the sentence. Then, the doctor's face broke into a brief smile.

"Major Mustang will be alright." He continued talking, but Hughes didn't hear a word. He'll be okay. It was too much to comprehend. He had hardly dared hope that Mustang would make it, but it seemed like his prayers had been answered. With a small shock of surprise, he realized that he had dropped to his knees. Fitting, he thought. Maybe someone is listening after all.

Riza placed her hand on his back, and he heard her start to cry. This time, he joined her. The awful fear that had gripped him ever since he'd realized his friend was missing melted away in a flood of relief, and he knelt on the ground in the Ishvalan dust shaking with delayed shock.

It was three long days that Mustang remained unconscious, not stirring at all, barely breathing. Hughes and Riza remained at his bedside as many hours a day as physically possible, every moment that they weren't either helping with the war effort or asleep. Hughes spent most of the time he was there talking to Mustang's still body, telling him about the war, about his life, asking him to please wake up soon. Riza never said anything, just carefully watched the rise and fall of his chest and occasionally touched his limp hand. Hughes had no idea what she was thinking about.

Finally, on the third day since they'd found him bleeding on the battlefield, Mustang opened his eyes. He blinked a few times in the bright light streaming through the tent. His face was still pale as death, covered in healing cuts and burns, the circles beneath his eyes dark and hollow. He didn't look like he quite understood where he was. Hughes thought it must be confusing, to pass out somewhere sure you were going to die and then to wake up somewhere entirely different.

Mustang immediately tried to sit up, but his body was too weak and damaged. He fell back down to the pillows with a gasp, breathing shallow as he fought the darkness that threatened to steal him again. His hand immediately went to his side, the place where the worst of the wounds was. The blankets fell off of his shoulder, revealing his bare chest crisscrossed with white bandages.

"Hey," Hughes said quickly. "Don't try to move just yet." Riza put a hand on Mustang's shoulder, to make sure he didn't try to sit up too fast again.

Mustang rested his head on the pillows, not moving, simply trying to steady his breathing. "What...what happened?" he finally asked. "I'm...not dead, right?"

Hughes heard Riza make a small sound in the back of her throat. He hoped that she wouldn't start crying, because Hughes thought if she did he might too.

"You're not dead," Hughes said firmly. "You're...you're going to be completely fine." Hughes picked up one of Mustang's hands where it was lying limp on top of the blankets, swathed in bandages. Normally, Mustang would never be okay with that much physical contact, even from Hughes, but now, he was too weak and frightened to protest.

Hughes watched as Riza leaned forward and brushed the hair back from Mustang's forehead, careful not to touch any of the shallow scratches that marred his face.

"Relax," she said, her voice soft. "It will be alright."

Hughes could tell Mustang was still afraid, that he wasn't sure what was going on, that he was in a lot of pain. But at least Hughes knew that Mustang recognized him and Riza, and was glad he could feel like he was among friends.

"Thank you," Mustang finally whispered, voice small and weak and tight with pain. "Thank you for not leaving."

Hughes smiled slightly. "I'll never leave you," he said softly. "Not ever."